James's hands trembled as he gripped the sword with both hands. Ariel unsheathed her own sword; the polished steel gleamed. James instinctively took a step back, his feet crunching on the broken stones. John watched, his expression grim. The thought crossed his mind: *Young master definitely isn't ready for this.*

"Young master," John called out, his voice low and urgent, "this is definitely unwise. You shouldn't face her." James shook his head, a stubborn refusal evident in the slight jerk of his head. He muttered a defiant "No," and charged forward.

Ariel met his attack with a chilling smile. "Pathetic," she said, the word a low, almost contemptuous whisper. With a swift, practiced movement, she kicked a loose rock from the nearby pile of rubble. The rock, propelled with surprising force, flew through the air, a small, deadly missile. It struck James's right leg with a sickening thud, tearing through his flesh and leaving a ragged wound. A sharp cry of pain escaped James's lips as he stumbled and fell heavily to the ground.

"Young master!" John shouted, immediately starting to run towards James.

Ariel raised her right hand, a simple gesture that somehow managed to halt John's approach. "Stop right there," she commanded, her voice calm but firm. "Relax, I'm not going to kill him or anything." She then walked over to James, her expression unchanged. "You know, James," she said, her voice laced with a condescending sweetness that only served to amplify the insult, "this all could have been easier if you could use Light Heal. I mean, even people who don't have our blood can use Light Heal. You're even more pathetic than the normal people out there."

James grunted, pushing himself up with a visible effort, his sword still clutched tightly in his hands. "Shut up," he snarled, his voice thick with pain and a desperate attempt at defiance. He managed to regain his fighting stance, his body trembling with a mixture of pain, anger, and desperate resolve. He charged again, thrusting his sword towards Ariel's chest with all his might. The sword pierced her, passing cleanly through her body and emerging from her back. James froze, astonishment etched on his face. *Why didn't she dodge?* He looked at Ariel's face, and a cold dread washed over him. She looked utterly emotionless, devoid of any sign of pain, a chilling mask of impassivity.

James released the sword and took a few steps back, his eyes widening as he stared at his sister's face. She smiled. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Why do you look scared? Is this not what you wanted?" With effortless grace, she slowly withdrew the sword from her chest. James watched, horrified, as the wound vanished, the flesh knitting itself back together seamlessly.

John observed, his thoughts a silent commentary: *Miss Ariel possesses impressive skills. She could easily win this with a single blow, holding back as she is. But why is she doing this? Why intimidate her brother so much? She's taking this too far.*

Ariel looked at James. "You see," she said, her voice calm yet chilling, "even if you managed to hurt me, you still couldn't win. We both know I let you do that. Guess what? Now it's my turn."

She grasped both swords, and an invisible aura erupted from her legs, engulfing her completely. It was unseen, like invisible air or an invisible flame, but James felt it—a palpable pressure, a chilling aura of power. He felt he was facing something inhuman, something far beyond his little sister. *What is she?* he wondered, the thought abruptly cut short.

Ariel moved with impossible speed, appearing before him as if she had teleported. Suddenly, James felt a searing pain in his chest. His shirt ripped open, revealing a bleeding wound. Blood welled, slowly dripping down his waist and onto his pants. He screamed, collapsing to his knees.

John stepped forward. "Miss Ariel," he said, his voice sharp with concern, "we have to stop this now. You've taken this too far."

John moved toward the training arena, but Ariel pointed a sword at him. "I said stop right there," she said, her eyes hardening. She turned her attention back to James, who groaned on the floor, losing blood.

"But my lady," John pleaded, "we have to treat him quickly."

Several maids emerged, their faces a mixture of shock and concern at the scene before them. Ariel glared down at her brother. "You're pathetic," she spat. "I don't know how many times I have to say this. Are you sure you're my brother? Are you sure you're not from some cheap orphanage? You don't look a thing like me, and the thought that I'm related to someone like you makes me sick. You're weaker than the commoners out there. You don't deserve nobility."

"My lady, that's enough," John interjected, stepping onto the training platform. He placed his hands on James's back; they glowed green, and James began to heal. John then looked at Ariel. "If this continues, I'll have to report this to your father."

Ariel clicked her tongue, her displeasure evident, and walked away from the platform. Without looking back, she tossed the sword she held onto the platform. It landed with a sharp *thunk* near James's foot as he stood, tears streaming down his face. Maids approached Ariel. "My lady," one said, "we must prepare you for the celebration.

The maids and Ariel returned to the mansion. John knelt before James, his elbow resting on his raised knee. "Please forgive me, young master," he said. "I let her take things too far."

James wiped his tears. "No, it's fine. It's all my fault. I'm simply too weak." He chuckled humorlessly. "I deserve this humiliation. She's right; I am weaker than the commoners, and I don't think that's ever going to change."

John stood up, shaking his head. "No, you're wrong, young master." He placed a hand on James's shoulder. "You haven't learned any skills yet. How about I teach you some of what I've learned?"

"What?" James said, bewildered. "I'm so weak; I won't be able to learn any skills."

John smiled. "That's where you're wrong." He turned, his back to James. "There are two skills I use that don't require a high level to learn. As long as you're above level 10, you can learn them."

"What? There are skills like that?" James exclaimed.

John turned back. "Did you see how I swang my sword? And the mana I released from it—a form of wind magic, though not strictly. It's similar; I used it with fire when I used the Burning Sword."

"Yeah, I saw that," James replied, his interest piqued.

"I'll teach you these two skills," John said. "Slash and Pierce."

"Slash and Pierce," James repeated, the words.

John nodded. "Yes, but I can't teach you today. As you can see," he gestured around at the damaged training platform, "we'll have to repair this first. It should be done by tomorrow. And you're celebrating your sister's birthday, yes?"

James looked down. "They're celebrating my sister's birthday, but I'm not. I have to get ready soon, or my father will start shouting at me."

"Yes, of course," John said. "Have a good day, young master."

James returned to the mansion. He went to the changing rooms where his butlers provided him with an appropriate outfit. Guests began to arrive—various nobles and another family with the blood of heroes. Throughout the day, James kept his conversations brief. Some of the hero descendants looked at him and laughed; the rumor of the hero who couldn't pass level 30 was well-known, bringing shame to his father and family—a feeling that intensified with each passing birthday celebration.

Mid-celebration, James saw his sister receive another gift: beautiful armor crafted from dragonskin. She was overjoyed, but James felt no envy.

The celebration continued until nightfall. Bored, James went outside, heading straight for the training grounds.

He held a golden cup, taking a sip of its contents. He noticed the training platform was already repaired. *Well, that was fast,* he thought. Stepping onto the platform, he reflected, *I've trained since I was ten; it's consumed most of my days. I'm used to it.* He looked at his hand. *It was already trembling, almost as if it wantedto hold a sword. I want to push myself further. I'm used to it; it's almost an addiction—an addiction to something that yields no results. Even thinking about Father makes my hand tremble.* He sighed. *I'll just go inside, grab a sword, and train until I'm tired enough to sleep.*

The memory of his sister's humiliation earlier that day flooded back. He gritted his teeth, squeezing the golden cup so hard his knuckles turned white. He released it with a sharp exhale. *Somehow, I have to get her back for that. One day.*

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He returned to the mansion, then came back outside with a sword. He adopted a fighting stance, his focus narrowing to exclude the sounds of the celebration—the murmur of conversations, the clinking of plates and silverware, the laughter of possibly inebriated guests—all fading into the background. He took a step, beginning to swing his blade, recalling John's instructions. If he couldn't increase his speed, he would master this perfectly. Until then, he would certainly become stronger.

Two years later.

Sunlight bathed the training grounds. James breathed heavily, sweat dripping from his brow as he held his sword. Clad in a white shirt and black pants, he roared, unleashing two slashes that aimed for John. John reacted swiftly, his sword rising to deflect one slash, then twisting to parry the other. "You're getting better at this," John commented, charging forward, his sword descending in a swift, downward strike aimed at James's shoulder. James parried the blow, their swords clashing. He groaned with the effort. John smiled. "You've definitely grown, my lord," he said, jumping back. "You seem better at using the skills I taught you, but something's wrong. Are you distracted by your father joining the army to go to war?"

"Would it sound bad if I said no?" James asked.

John lowered his sword, the tip touching the ground. He placed both palms on the hilt. "Yes, that would be bad, my lord. After all, he is your father. But don't worry; I'm sure he'll return as always."

"Yeah, I'm sure he will too," James replied, adopting a fighting stance.

"I think that's enough for today," John said. "Rest is important in training."

"Alright," James agreed, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he lowered his sword.

He sheathed his sword and stepped off the training grounds. As he turned toward the mansion entrance, he saw it: Ariel's pet, a small, blue, three-headed dragon, about the size of an Elin. A gift for her eighteenth birthday, a promise their father had made when she was twelve. James usually didn't envy Ariel's gifts, but this one… this one sparked a flicker of envy.

He approached the dragon, which regarded him with three pairs of eyes. The middle head stared intently, almost frozen, while the others moved. The rightmost head gently nipped at the middle head's neck, as if scratching it. The dragon's height reached his kneecap. He walked past the dragon, opening the mansion door and stepping inside. *I swear that thing always pisses me off,* he thought. *She even got it to attack me a month ago; it hurt like hell.*

He spotted a butler. "Hey, butler," he called.

"Yes, my lord," the butler replied, hurrying to his side.

"I'm going to take a bath," James said. "Prepare some clothes for me, and I'll eat afterward."

"Yes, my lord," the butler said. "Everything will be prepared immediately."

"All right," James said, heading down the hallway to his room.He entered his room, sheathing his sword and hanging it on its usual place on the wall. He bathed and changed into fresh clothes before heading to the dining hall. There, he found his mother crying, Ariel standing beside her, stroking her mother's golden blonde hair, tears streaming down her own face. Both women wore expressions of profound sadness.

James approached them, his concern evident. "What's wrong? What happened? Why are you crying?"

Ariel looked at him, her eyes red and swollen. "It's Father," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

James' eyes widened. "What? What happened to Father?"

His mother looked at him, tears streaming down her face. "Your father… he passed away in the war," she managed to say, her voice choked with grief.

James' heart pounded. "What? What do you mean? That can't be possible. Father… Father died?"

Ariel shot him a sharp, angry glare. "Yes," she said, her voice tight with unshed tears. "He died. They were fighting kingdoms in the east. They couldn't even retrieve his body… he was burned." Her voice cracked. "I told him! I told him I could go to war with him! I told him I could help! But he said I wasn't ready! I told him I could fight! I told him I was strong enough! Stronger than he thought! But he wouldn't let me… he wouldn't let me…" Her voice trailed off into sobs.

Her face pressed against James's chest, the dampness of her tears seeping through his clothing. He continued to stroke her hair, a dull ache settling in his own chest. The grief was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on him, yet his eyes remained stubbornly dry. No tears came.

Ariel slowly lifted her head, her tear-streaked face tilted upward. Their eyes met. For a short moment, she held his gaze, her expression a mixture of grief and something else… a dawning suspicion. She saw the lack of tears, the stillness in his eyes, and a flicker of something akin to anger sparked in her own. With a deliberate movement, born of both sorrow and accusation, she pushed herself away from him. The force wasn't violent, but firm, enough to send him reeling backward. He landed hard against the wall some twenty feet away, the impact stealing his breath. He gasped, coughing as he fell to his knees.

Their mother cried out, "What are you doing?"

Ariel pointed a trembling finger at James. "Mother, look! He's not crying! What does that mean? He doesn't even care about Father!"

Their mother rose to her feet, her voice strained with a mixture of grief and concern. "We both know that's not true. James feels as much grief as you do, dear."

Ariel screamed, "Liar! We both know he always hated me and Dad! I'm sure you're relieved he's dead, aren't you?" She took a step toward him, her body tense with barely controlled rage.

"Ariel, please, don't," their mother pleaded. "Stop."

James looked at his sister, a faint, almost unsettling smile playing on his lips. The unexpected expression halted Ariel's advance.

"Do you think I don't feel pain because Dad died?" James said, his voice low and controlled. "Mother's right. I am hurt. But she's wrong about one thing. I'm not hurt as much as both of you are. If you think I should be, then you're completely delusional. I'm sad that Father died, but not as much as you."

"Do you seriously expect me to miss him as much as you would? To miss *his* affection?" James's voice was tight with bitterness. "Both of you… you've treated me like an embarrassment all these years!" His gaze flicked to his mother, his eyes starting to well with unshed tears. "Mother, you were complicit too! You expect me to miss him? The only memories I have are of his insults and the brutal training he forced on me! How am I supposed to think… how are *you* supposed to think… that he was a good father? You're all complete idiots if you think—"

His mother's hand connected with his face before he could finish the sentence. She had been several feet away, yet she appeared before him instantly, the slap sharp and stinging. The impact sent a jolt through him, silencing his words.

"How dare you say that about your father!" she cried, her voice thick with anguish. "He loved you! He raised you! He only treated you that way because he wanted you to better yourself, to become stronger, for *yourself*!"

James stared into her eyes, a trickle of blood tracing a path from the corner of his mouth to his chin, a single crimson droplet falling to the floor.

"We both know he wanted me to be stronger *for him*," James said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "I don't blame him. We both know I'm this family's curse." He let out a short, humorless laugh and walked away, heading back toward the training grounds.

His mother burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. "What have I done?" she sobbed.

Ariel watched them both, her anger simmering beneath her grief. She turned and followed James.

James reached the training grounds and stepped onto the platform. His hand began to tremble again. He grabbed it with his left hand, trying to still the shaking, but the tremor persisted. Then, the tears came, a torrent he couldn't suppress. *Why am I crying?* he thought, his voice a bitter whisper in his mind. *I hate him. I don't love him. I don't love my father. But why do I cry? Stop crying, you idiot.*

John emerged from the shadows of the mansion. He'd heard the news and witnessed James's silent breakdown. Joseph, his father, had always spoken highly of the Tyranny family, praising their kindness and generosity, especially the patriarch. He'd described him as a gentle man, despite his flaws. But John knew the truth about James's father's harsh treatment of his son. John had initially felt honored to be chosen to train the Tyranny heir, believing he would train a hero, one of the chosen. Seeing James crying now, however, filled him with a sense of failure. He knew James was still only level 29. His skills had improved dramatically, but his level remained stubbornly low. It was a mystery why this particular hero, seemingly blessed by the goddess, progressed so slowly. They had even gone to the expense of procuring a high-ranked monster to test a theory—that killing such a creature would trigger a significant level increase—but James had only leveled up once after the ordeal.

Bringing a very high-ranked monster into the kingdom was forbidden, so they had settled for one of a lower, yet still considerable rank—D to C, considered high-ranked by James's standards, a concession granted by the king to James's father.

John began walking toward the training platform. Suddenly, a furious shout ripped through the air— "James!"

James turned to see Ariel striding toward him, her face contorted with rage, a sword clutched in her hand. "Take it back!" she demanded, her voice tight with fury. "Take back everything you said about Father, right now!"

James wiped his tears. "What?"

Then, everything happened in a blur. One moment Ariel was several feet away; the next, she was gone. John stood before James, but something was terribly wrong. John's back was to James, a sword protruding from his chest. The tip of the blade had also grazed James.

James stumbled back, realizing John had taken the blow meant for him. A drop of blood trickled from John's eye and the corner of his mouth. He smiled, a grim, pained expression. "It seems you used a cursed attack," he said, his voice strained. "My body will be poisoned; I won't be able to heal."

Ariella's face was inches from John's, her eyes wide with shock and horror.

"But please, milady," John gasped, his blood splattering onto Ariella's face, "don't kill young Master James. He is your brother. It's not his fault."

With a final, shuddering cough, John collapsed, dead.

A cry tore from James's throat. He knelt beside John, shaking him frantically. "John, John, John, wake up!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face. The sight only fueled Ariel's rage.

"You're not able to cry for Dad," she said, her voice low and dangerously quiet, "but you can cry for this man? I don't even know this man! He wasn't my trainer. My father was my trainer. This man was only yours, and you can cry for him and not Father? You disgust me. You are not my brother."

With a swift, brutal movement, she swung her sword, the blade slicing toward James's eye. James screamed in agony as he instinctively shielded his face.

"Stop screaming," Ariel commanded, her voice cold and hard. She repeated the order, her tone sharper, more menacing. Then, with a brutal kick to the head, she rendered him unconscious.

The servants and maids, who had witnessed the entire horrifying scene, stood frozen in fear.

Ariel's gaze swept over them, her face stained with blood. "Why didn't you help?" she demanded, her voice laced with lethal threat. The servants trembled.

"Ah, that's right," she said, a chilling smile playing on her lips. "Because you knew I'd kill you, didn't you?"

She turned back to James. "James, take him. Clean him up and return his body to his family. Let them know he died for disobeying orders." She looked at her brother again, her eyes filled with icy contempt. "This one is no longer my brother."

*I have to find a way to get rid of him without Mother noticing,* she thought, her mind already plotting. *Honestly, he makes me sick.*

She turned and walked away, disappearing into her chambers.

Hours later, James awoke. He blinked, a hand instinctively going to his eye—a cloth bandage covered it. He was in the middle of nowhere, under a night sky thick with stars. It was the dead of night. His sword was sheathed at his hip; beside him lay a bag containing a waterskin and a pouch of gold coins. *Where am I?* he thought, looking around at the seemingly endless expanse of grassland bathed in the pale light of the moon.

He felt a burning thirst and opened the waterskin, taking a long drink. The events of earlier that night flooded back—Ariel's fury, the near-fatal attack, John's death. The image of his trainer, the man who had known him for ten years, lying lifeless, brought a fresh wave of grief. A single tear, hot and heavy with sorrow, traced a path down his cheek.

He stood, his mind struggling to make sense of his situation. *I have to go back,* he thought, but which way? He looked left, then right. In the distance, he saw the silhouettes of mountains. *I'm still in the south,* he realized, *but where exactly?*

A more profound question settled in his mind: *Do I really want to go back home?* The thought of Ariel sent a tremor through him, a familiar shaking in his hand, the same tremor that used to plague him when he thought of his father. The similarity frightened him. He shook his head. " I.... I cant go back there. "

*(Now)*

Tyler looked at Grone, a flicker of empathy crossing his face as he felt the weight of the other man's pain. Grone continued, his voice low and measured. "And after that, when I headed towards the mountains, I managed to run into a road. I followed it to a village, got some supplies, and started traveling. The gold my sister gave me—200 gold coins—was a lot. I thought she'd leave me to die. From there, I reached a town and became a registered hunter. That's where I met Lisa, my wife."

"Yeah, about that," Tyler said, "I also found out Lisa's level—141. But how—"

Grone interrupted. "How come *I'm* the hunter while she stays at home? Well, she can't really use advanced spells anymore. That's her story to tell, though. She's very strict about me telling other people things like that. And I don't blame her. If people found out I'm the hero who vanished a long time ago, I'd be in big trouble. They'd start looking for me."

"Why?" Tyler asked. "Didn't they just kick you out?"

"If you'd been paying attention," Grone said, a hint of weariness in his voice, "I said my sister… I think my sister threw you out without Mother knowing. And when you told me my daughter is leveling up so fast… I was shocked. It confirms I'm my father's son. She has the hero's blood, too. But… I wish it never happened."